Sherlock Holmes and Young Winston - The Jubilee Plot

by Mike Hogan

  “It is, Lieutenant, I have no intention of shooting anybody.”

  “The bruisers will remain on Enchantress. I do not trust their discipline. Ah, here are the Indian princes.”

  The Thakores of Gondal and Limdi crossed the deck. They wore yellow turbans and white dressing gowns. I envied them their bright-eyed and refreshed look. They had slept; I drooped with fatigue.

  “We heard a bang,” said Gondal. He looked across at the Biarritz. “I see that you have the scoundrels. I had no doubt that the Royal Navy would catch them.” He and Limdi shook the lieutenant’s hand and warmly congratulated him. When informed that we were about to board, they ran to the companionway and disappeared below.

  I cocked an eyebrow at Holmes, but said nothing. Ducking away when things became hot was a common-enough problem with highbred types. I remembered with affection the loyal mountain men of our Ghurkha regiments, and the tall, ramrod straight lines of the Sikhs. I fervently hoped that we would never have to fight such fine men again.

  I was surprised to see that we were required to climb into the long rowing boat before it was lowered; it was in fact a sensible arrangement, much better than climbing down a ladder into a gyrating boat. I sat in the bow between two old salts who instantly pulled out pipes and lit them, smoking with the pipe bowl facing down, in the Navy fashion. I took a fill offered by one fellow who looked to be in his sixties. After one puff, the jerk as the boat hit the water startled me and the glowing tobacco popped out onto the floor of the boat. I jumped as the sailor calmly trod it out with his naked foot. Midshipman James lit a cigarette and had it passed along to me.

  The sea, which looked so calm from the deck of the Enchantress, heaved the boat up and down in an alarming motion. We seemed to make little progress, despite the exertions of the rowers, and I was astonished when, at a soft word of command from the midshipman, the sailors pulled in their oars and the boat bumped gently against the side of the Biarritz.

  A head peered over the railing of the ship and a rope ladder dropped beside me. I looked up at the tall, black hull with a jolt of fear. Midshipman James stepped carefully over the oars and benches and stood before me.

  “Pardon me, Doctor,” he said with a smile. “As senior officer, I must go first.”

  “Oh, do not mind me, Mr James, please go ahead.”

  He grinned again. “Wait until my men have joined me, sir, and we will find a better way to bring you aboard. We would not want to lose you to the briny deep.”

  Two seamen held the rope ladder steady as the midshipman clambered up and hitched himself over the bulwark. The rowers, with cutlasses literally between their teeth, swarmed up after him. The men with rifles slung over their shoulders, Marines I presumed, followed leaving me with two boatmen. I could see no sign of the other boat with Holmes and Mycroft aboard.

  There was a cry from the deck above, and a rope was lowered to the boatmen. They sat me on a wooden slat, like a child’s swing, and tightened a loop of rope under my armpits. I clutched my medical case in my lap as I was swung up, over the ship’s side and deposited on the deck amid the grinning seamen.

  I stood, dusted myself off and recovered my composure as the contraption was manoeuvred to the other side of the ship where more sailors climbed over the gunwale. I joined Holmes, Midshipman James and the Russian Captain in front of a deckhouse.

  “I regret, Doctor,” said Captain Barshai. “My passenger insisted. He had a pistol.”

  I shook his proffered hand.

  Mycroft swung over the side of the ship in the rope sling looking ruffled and uncomfortable.

  “Captain, I require you to muster your crew and passengers here on the foredeck,” said Midshipman James to the Russian.

  “We must find Churchill and the others,” I said. “They may be in terrible danger.”

  The midshipman turned to me. “I will let you have five men, Doctor, with the bosun in command.”

  The heavily bearded man with the axe stepped forward with three marines and two seamen. I drew my pistol and led them down the ladder to the deck below. I could not find my way. It was only when I climbed to the upper deck in the centre of the ship and found the place where I had first boarded, that I could retrace my steps down two decks to the cabin. I was shocked to see that balks of timber had been nailed across the cabin door and that vents in the door and the space under it were filled with rags.

  “My God, the brutes aim to suffocate the boy. Open the door this instant. Break it down, I say.”

  Sailors sprang to the door, heaved, but could not move it. The huge petty officer with the axe pulled them aside and demolished the planks and the door with naval efficiency. He kicked what was left of it open, and we were confronted with a domestic scene.

  District Nurse Levine sat on a bunk, knitting. Mr Melas flicked down a corner of the Illustrated London News, and smiled a greeting. Churchill and Willy looked up from a game of Patience.

  “We opened that little round window for a cooling breeze,” said Mr Melas pointing to the scuttle. “It is so refreshing after the heat of London.”

  Not a Moment for Levity

  We trooped up to the deck to find that the crew and passengers of the Biarritz mustered in front of the deckhouse in the bow.

  The Russian sailors were ranged on one side and the passengers on the other. Churchill’s appearance caused a ripple of horror through the ranks of the Russians. They crossed themselves and shrank back to the rail; several screeched in terror and called out to their Captain.

  “Doctor,” cried Captain Barshai. “My men represent to me that they much fear from the plague.”

  “Churchill,” I ordered, “bare your breast.”

  He grinned and took off his sailor jacket and shirt. His skin was pale, but unmarked. He was beginning to show the consequences of Mrs Hudson’s solid fare and lack of exercise. I resolved to prescribe fewer helpings of potato and more time with Holmes’ barbells.

  The Captain looked from Churchill to me in blank astonishment.

  “The power of prayer,” said Holmes. “The boy is a follower of Mary Baker Eddy and the Christian Science. He had better wait in the lounge with Mrs Levine and Willy. And perhaps the Russians could be corralled elsewhere.”

  The Russian officers and sailors marched off under guard.

  Midshipman James nodded to a sailor. He jumped up on a bollard and waved a signal to the Enchantress in semaphore. The midshipman saluted Mycroft.

  “The engine room and bridge are secured, sir. All officers and crew are accounted for, but two passengers are missing. My men are searching the ship.”

  “Thank you, Mr James,” said Mycroft. He turned to the passengers, a score or so of men and women. “I am sorry that we have had to interrupt your voyage, ladies and gentlemen. We will need to examine your identity papers or passports. With your cooperation, this will not take long and you can be on your way.”

  There was a low murmur as Mr Melas translated Mycroft’s remarks into Russian and French.

  Mycroft nodded to his brother. Two sailors brought a table and chair and placed it where Holmes indicated. Churchill followed them and placed an inkstand and a Russian Bible on the table. He pulled back the chair and Holmes sat and shuffled papers, looking, in his blue uniform and cap, every inch the stern bureaucrat.

  With Mr Melas’ help, Holmes dismissed Russian families, businessmen and the couriers accompanying the Russian diplomatic bag. We were left with three men: a middle-aged man with shiny black hair under his homburg, an older, bearded man in a dark coat, and a young man who leaned against the rail smiling. Holmes called forward the man in the coat.

  “Mr Katkov, the famous editor of the Moscow Gazette. I hope that you enjoyed your short sojourn in England.”

  The man replied with a long speech in French that Mr Melas summarised for me.

 
“Monsieur Katkov is annoyed,” he said with a shrug.

  Holmes smiled. “Mr O’Donnell?”

  The middle-aged man wearing the homburg stepped forward. I knew at once that I had seen him before.

  “And Mr Walker.” The younger man nodded. He was probably only just in his twenties, clean-shaven, with a pale face and an aloof expression. He wore a smart, grey frock coat in the latest style and he affected a monocle.

  “First things first,” said Holmes. “Your pistols, if you please.” Midshipman James stepped across the deck, stood in front of the men and he held out his hand.

  Katkov shook his head. The older man shrugged, took a large-calibre pistol from his shoulder holster and handed it to Mr James. He slipped it into his belt with the greatest composure. The other man ignored him.

  “Come, sir,” said Holmes. “I would not like to have you stripped and searched.”

  The young man gave him a furious look. “I will pass my revolver into the care of an officer, not a boy, and expect that it shall be returned with apologies.”

  Midshipman James smiled, leaned forward and murmured something in his ear. The man stiffened and gaped; his monocle dropped on its string. He pulled a pistol from his waistband. I tensed and reached for my gun, but he meekly handed it to the young officer.

  “There now,” said Holmes. “Mr O’Donnell, you are an American.”

  “That is correct, sir,” said the older man with a slight Irish accent. “I was in England for your wonderful Jubilee celebration. I travel to Russia on business: I am in furs.”

  “I thought that you have a thriving fur business in North America,” said Holmes.

  “As with the buffalo, the greed of my compatriots has wiped out the supply. And I intend to deal in mink pelts, not beaver.”

  Holmes nodded. “And you, Mr Dacre. Your papers say that you too are an American.”

  “Are you addressing me, sir? If so, you are mistaken. As you can see from my passport, my name is Walker.”

  “Are you also in the fur trade?”

  “I do not engage in trade.”

  A party of sailors carried a long wooden crate and two leather portmanteaus. Despite the large size of the crate, two sailors handled it with ease.

  “That is my baggage,” said the man that Holmes had addressed as Dacre. “It is private property.”

  Holmes stood. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. I have been on your trail since the botched theft of the Gondal emeralds. Cigar, Mr Dacre? Do take a seat, sir.”

  Churchill brought out another chair from the Saloon.

  “You address me? I see that I cannot persuade you of my identity.” Dacre sat, took a cigar from Holmes’ case and cut it. Churchill lit it with a match. “You talk of a botched attempt,” Dacre said. “So these emeralds that you refer to were not stolen.”

  “On the contrary, they were. However, in the theft one of the participants was killed. Mr, or should I say Battalion Chief, James Walsh of the Chicago Fire Department.”

  “Originally from County Mayo,” said Mycroft, to Holmes’ obvious irritation.

  “I contacted your brother’s colleagues in Chicago,” said Holmes addressing the American. “They told me that he was the younger brother of Peter Walsh, who resided in Paris. James brought the aluminium ladder from Chicago. The resemblance to you is clear.”

  The man shrugged. “Yes, my true name is Walsh. The aluminium ladder twisted and I almost fell; my brother grabbed me and saved my life, at the cost of his own. He fell into the alley. I could see that he was dead - his neck was broken. We retrieved the ladder and escaped back across the rooftops and down to the street. A policeman stood on the corner near the alley, so I could not go to Jim. I was forced to leave my brother’s body on the ground, and it shames me.”

  “Be quiet, you fool,” said Dacre.

  “I can assure you that your brother’s remains are being treated with utmost respect,” said Holmes.

  Walsh nodded.

  “The bomb was a warning?” asked Holmes.

  “It was.”

  “What of the dray?”

  “Him in the barrel with a pistol,” said Walsh with a sneer. “He said he couldn’t get a clear shot.”

  Dacre bristled, but said nothing.

  “Perhaps sly murder is not your forte, Mr Dacre. I cannot doubt your nerve. You played the Thakore of Gondal at Buckingham Palace: that took bravado at the least. You were burnt-corked to resemble an Indian. You wandered up to the Royal Suite smoking a cigar and with a plate of digestive biscuits in your hand. No, that was cool.”

  Dacre could not hide a slight smirk.

  “The fake brooch was to give you time,” Holmes continued.

  “We planned to take the Boat Train to the Continent in a day or two,” said Walsh. “Dacre panicked and got us on the Biarritz instead.”

  “You are a dead man,” said Dacre flatly, tapping out his cigar ash, just as the bosun and a party of sailors came through the door of the saloon dragging two finely dressed Indians in turbans.

  He stood them before Midshipman James. “They was hid under the piano in the Smoking Lounge, sir.”

  I immediately recognised Kanji, although he sported a fine black eye. The other was a plump, middle-aged man, gorgeously dressed in fine silks. He had thick, greying, mutton-chop whiskers, and on his head was a wide, blue turban.

  “That one,” the bosun continued, pointing at Kanji, “made an attempt at me with this.” He threw an ornate dagger on to the table next to Holmes.

  “There is blood on the blade, Watson.”

  I took up my medical bag and examined the bosun. He had a slash across his chin that dripped blood on to his white shirt.

  “He aimed for your jugular,” I said.

  Holmes turned to Midshipman James. “Let us get in out of the sun. Even at this time in the morning it’s hot enough to make us all a little tetchy.”

  “Certainly, Mr Holmes.”

  The plump Indian stiffened. “You are Sherlock Holmes?” he asked.

  “I am,” said Holmes. “And you are Maharajah Duleep Singh, late of Norfolk, Paris and Saint Petersburg. Or are you still travelling as Michael Donovan, the dynamite fiend?”

  We sat around a long table in the Dining Saloon. I murmured my astonishment that Maharajah Duleep was on the ship.

  “Oh, I knew they were on board,” Holmes replied. “The Captain showed me the passenger list as you ministered to Churchill. Monsieurs Katkov and Elveden took first-class cabins from Saint Petersburg to London, conducted their business on the ship, and were returning without ever having stepped ashore. Elveden is the name of the Maharajah’s shooting estate in Norfolk. Mr Donovan and Mr Walker were travelling from London to Saint Petersburg. A cabin was also booked for a Monsieur Kanji.”

  I looked at Holmes in utter astonishment. “They booked their prisoner a cabin?”

  Holmes smiled and turned to the assembled company. “I think we have it,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Katkov’s plan to persuade the Tsar to attack India failed when a young fanatic tried to blow His Imperial Majesty to pieces. The Maharajah here was encouraged to take the identity of a known dynamitard and would-be regicide.”

  He shook his head in wonder and smiled at the Maharajah Duleep. “I cannot imagine what induced Your Highness to take such a lunatic step.”

  Mycroft coughed.

  “Yes, yes. The tentacles of the British Secret Services are almost as far-reaching as Monsieur Katkov alleges in his fiery leaders in the Moscow Gazette. The Maharajah hoped, with Fenian and criminal assistance, to present the Tsar first with a fabulous glittering gift, then with the Punjab, and finally with India. He made contact with a professional criminal organisation in England through his Fenian connections in Paris. Was it General Morgan who suggested that you put t
he matter into the hands of Dacre’s master? Or was it the Donovans? It makes no difference, but I would say Michael Donovan. He engaged an Irish-American Fenian in Paris to watch out for the Maharajah’s interests, and that man, Mr Walsh here, recruited his brother in Chicago.

  “Your first target was probably Windsor castle. Then you, Mr Dacre, saw the opportunity that the Jubilee presented for you. The jewel would be out of the safety of its Windsor Castle vaults and in Buckingham Palace, where, with the disruption of the usual routines occasioned by daily Jubilee dinners and receptions, you would find an opportunity to accomplish your theft.

  “You needed a means of ingress and egress. The idea of an aluminium ladder was a masterstroke.”

  I saw that Dacre could not resist a tiny bow in acknowledgement of the compliment.

  “It must have been expensive,” Holmes continued in a wondering tone.

  Dacre shrugged.

  “You covered your expenses by taking the Gondal emeralds. And you created an opportunity to impersonate the young Thakore.”

  Two figures in turbans and brocaded frock coats came into the cabin. They carried long scimitars tucked into sashes around their waists.

  “Kanji!” cried the Thakore of Gondal, rushing forward to kneel and grasp the older man’s hand. “You are alive. What have the devils done to you? A brandy here, for Kanji. Have you no brandy?”

  “You did not wait,” said his companion, the Thakore of Limdi to Holmes. “We had to get dressed. One cannot tackle dacoits in one’s night attire.”

  Holmes stood. “We have been talking over events and we have come to the theft of the Gondal jewels. A certain person approached Maharajah Duleep with a proposition. He would hand over Gondal to the conspiracy with Russia in return for - what I wonder; the throne? That person was aggrieved by his master’s plans for changes in the principality: railways, hospitals, advancement of non-Hindus and schools for girls. Perhaps, as Colonel Delacy suspects, he had support from the zenana.”